


The Herald of Forgivness

by Exposedma



Series: The Herald of... [9]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Child Loss, Did I Mention Angst?, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-06 22:01:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4238127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exposedma/pseuds/Exposedma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If she had been herself she would have noticed the quiver of Cullen’s hands, the near constant sweat at his brow despite having left the desert behind.  Instead her focus is inward, on herself and her pain, and her white hot rage; they ask her what it was she saw, and she says spiders, they believe her, or so they tell her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Herald of Forgivness

It’s hard, trying to be understanding while breaking inside. It’s hard to show empathy when her fear and anger wants the world to burn at her feet. The ride from Adamant is long and the grim set of Isabel’s face does not change. The fear demon’s words, the visions, her memories overwhelm her, and she holds her tongue for fear of lashing out. 

If she had been herself she would have noticed the quiver of Cullen’s hands, the near constant sweat at his brow despite having left the desert behind. Instead her focus is inward, on herself and her pain, and her white hot rage; they ask her what it was she saw, and she says spiders, they believe her, or so they tell her.

At night alone in the tent beside Cullen, she feels his tremors through the shared blanket, feels the dampness his sweat leaves. She should ask him if all is well, she would have prior to the siege, before she had walked the fade and her nightmares were made real. She should be caring, she’s supposed to care. But all she can muster is annoyance at his constant movement, the desire to snap at him and tell him to stop far stronger than the desire to understand what plagues him. They lay awake, Inquisitor and Commander, neither sleeping, both hiding, both burning with shame and guilt. Isabel does not want to be the first to speak. She’s not ready to speak, she wants to hit, and cut, and kill, and slam her shield into the fear demon again and again, and she wants to forget but is too frightened to ask Cole for help. 

She wants to forget the look of betrayal Varric gave her when his closest friend did not emerge with the rest of the group. She wants to forget the creatures - not spiders - that had harried and nearly paralyzed her, how it had killed a piece of her soul every time she lowered her sword into them. She wants Cullen to take her in his arms and take away the pain, to fuck it away, to erase everything; bitter contempt for his wish (and hers) to hold off on sex, to leave her wanting…again. She wants to be taken care of, and she wants to scream that it’s not fair that he is ill, she’s angry at his inability to look after her in her pain and her inability to help him in his, she’s not strong enough to care for both of them right now.

Cullen finds his own tent the following night, retreating, and Isabel lets him, glad for the solitude and dry blankets. The silence is thick between them, they both act like they are being hunted, sheer will keeping them from fleeing from their lives.

They return to Skyhold solemn despite the resounding victory. Cullen stalks off to his tower after the faintest of kisses to her cheek. Her heart pangs, and she grabs his arm, “Cullen?”

“It’s just a headache.” He smiles tightly while he lies to her.

Her guilt is a physical blow and the urge to hit something only grows stronger. So she does. She shucks off her armor until she is in nothing but her sweat stained and travel worn linen shirt and leathers, she binds her fists, and she finds a practice dummy. She hits it, fists connecting with brittle and dry wood, it splinters and cracks under the force of her punches. She punches until the cloth around her fists frays, until she can feel the scrape of wood against her skin, until the linen grows bloody. And when her arms can only hang limply at her side she leans on the savaged wood, tears stopped behind her lashes and a cry buried deep in her gut.

Days grow into a week, and Isabel only sees Cullen at the war council, she does not seek him out, and she can feel the warm amber of his eyes bore into her back whenever she concludes their meetings. With every ignored opportunity to talk she knows she’s hurting him, but she’s afraid of what she sees, afraid of what he’ll tell her if she inquires after his health, he’s grown gaunt, and pale, the dark circles under his eyes like bruises. She’s withdrawing into herself, training or working herself to an exhausted stupor. Falling into dreamless sleep, because it’s easier to ignore her guilt then face it every time she stops to think. 

It’s Cassandra who finally finds her tearing apart a training dummy in the yard.  
“Inquisitor, we need to talk.” The seeker stands a few paces behind the training dummy, but within Isabel’s field of vision.

“I’m in the middle of something, Cassandra.” She dismisses through grit teeth and panting breaths as she swings and strikes.

Cassandra scowls and steps forward, catching Isabel’s arm and twisting, landing the Inquisitor on her back before throwing the sword away. “It wasn’t a request. Now.”

Isabel is pulled bodily on to her feet, storm grey eyes flash and she bares her teeth, indignant, angry at her treatment.

“I’m the inquisitor, Pentaghast, careful.” She grinds out of her clenched jaw before Cassandra snorts and tosses her against the wooden wall of the smithy hard enough for her teeth to clack, but not hard enough to harm.

“Is that what you are now? I thought you had forgotten your duties. You’ve barely spoken to anyone since our return from Adamant, your attendance at the war council is in body only.” She cuts off any protest Isabel might have made, pushing forward, “you think I do not speak with Leliana, Josephine, Cullen? Did you know he begged me to take over his command. He stands on a knifes edge, one small push will have him back on lyrium. Cullen suffers and you ignore him.”

Isabel presses the heels of her hands into her eyes, not wanting to hear it, wondering if his withdrawals have been this bad since the night after Adamant, guilt coiling tightly in her gut.

“He will not listen to me, Isabel, he can persevere but he thinks himself too weak, and reason will not reach him, not from me.” Cassandra is searching her face, but Isabel avoids her eyes, jaw set.

“I’ll go and talk to him, Cassandra. Can I go now?” Isabel’s face a mask of imperiousness.

The seeker steps back, angling her body, silently allowing the Inquisitor to pass. Isabel doesn’t miss the scrutiny, all too aware she is being studied.

“Is everything alri-” 

Isabel leaves before Cassandra can finish the question, having no interest in answering. She climbs the steps leading to Cullen’s tower almost running lest she lose her nerve. The door rattles on it’s hinges, locked. It is midday, Cullen never locks his doors, save for when he retires for the night, so she knocks. Knocking again, she hears him bark to leave him be from the other side of the door which only makes Isabel grit her teeth. 

“Commander Rutherford, open the door.” She sounds stronger than she feels. 

There’s a muttered curse and heavy footfall before the latches on the door scrap and clank from within. Isabel isn’t ready for the man who greets her. Cullen leans heavily on the door frame, the pungent scent of sweat and vomit clings to him. His amber eyes are bloodshot and clouded, his hair hangs in greasy curls, and his beard has gotten thicker. He regards her with a furrowed brow before nodding his head in a mockery of deference.

“Inquisitor Trevelyan. To what do I owe the pleasure?” His voice is rough gravel, a testament to his withdrawal. Even in his state, his presence looms over Isabel, crowding her. She wants to step back and escape the hurt and anger and pain that pulses from him. He is not the handsome commander right now, but a man worn down from hardship wearing his bitterness and anger as comfortably as his bear fur mantel.

“May I come in?” and she makes herself look him in the eye, cold guilt in her stomach snapping the bile into her throat. Avoidance was no longer an option, so she swallows and inhales deeply keeping her face impassive, stepping forward instead of recoiling. “I thought we might talk.”

Cullen regards her, looking her up and down before stepping away from the door frame. He sits heavily in his chair, holding his head in one hand, rubbing at his forehead absently. Isabel stalks inside, closing and latching the door behind her. The stench of illness and desperation is stronger inside. The tell tale bright blue of liquid lyrium lines the mortar of the stone walls and floor, broken glass litters the room. Reports blanket Cullen’s large desk spilling onto the floor, his armor adorns the wooden stand pell-mell.

“So, talk.” He sighs out, picking up a report before rubbing his eyes and putting it down again. 

“Cassandra tells me you want to be relieved of duty.” Isabel rocks herself off from where she had been leaning on the door. “I...didn’t realize how bad things were for you, if I had known…”

His short bitter laugh feels like a physical blow,“you’ve barely looked at me since you stepped out of the fade at Adamant, the only words you’ve spoken have been orders from across the war table. You didn’t realize, Maker’s breath Isabel, you didn’t want to know.” Cullen tries to stand, but opts to continue sitting.

“You’re right, I don’t want to know because I don’t know how to help you, Cullen. I barely know how to help myself, after the fade….after….It’s easier to pretend that you’re alright and that we both aren't falling apart at the seams. Tell me what to do, what you need, I can’t lead without you beside me.” Isabel feels her voice crack, and she clears her throat while blinking back the tears that had been threatening for too long. His scrutiny makes her self conscious, and she starts to fidget. She doesn’t dare look at him and bends over to pick up the pieces of glass on the stone floor. Her vision blurs and she blinks, the thin glass inevitably cutting her. She hisses in a breath bringing her cut finger to her mouth, sucking on the wound.

“I should be taking it. Maybe then I would have seen that you were suffering as well, I might have been strong enough t-” the legs of the chair scrape across the flagstone floor.

Isabel stands to look at the battle worn soul wearing Cullen’s skin and shakes her head. “No. Too many people have sacrificed themselves for my sake, I won’t have you counted among them.” She closes the distance between them, grasping one of his trembling hands. “Look at me and tell me you want to go back to taking lyrium.”

“It’s not that easy, my duty, I won’t give less to the Inquisition then I did the Chantry, it’s not about what I want.” He leans on his desk, the weight of his own body too much for him.

“Yes. It is. Cullen, you’ve come so far, I won’t let you throw it all away.” Isabel brings a hand to his face to tilt it up and feels his clammy skin and the sharp bristle of his beard, he’s so pale and slick with sweat that concern overtakes her fear, it distracts her from herself.

“These memories haunt me, what if I can’t endure them, Isabel? I’m a monster, the things I’ve done…” The sharp fear in his voice hangs in the air, “you should be questioning what I’ve done.”

“You can endure Cullen. As for judging your past sins, I am in no position to question your actions. Not when my hands are far from clean.” She tugs him towards her, slipping an arm around his waist leading him to the door. “But before we worry about our sullied souls, I think a bath might be in order.”

“I think, perhaps, I should be alone-” He struggles to get out of her grip, but she only tightens her grasp. 

“And I think we’ve spent enough time alone, don’t you?” Isabel attempts a crooked smile, earning a sigh and a reluctant nod from Cullen.

The climb to Isabel’s chambers is slow, she orders a passing maidservant to draw a bath and sits Cullen down before getting to work removing his armor. She notes the tremor in his hands and downcast eyes and she waits for the bath to be drawn before pulling his sweat stained linen shirt over his head until he is left in nothing but his breeches. Isabel pulls Cullen towards the steaming scented water and he looks to her, his amber eyes alight with sorrow. She begins unlacing his pants but waits for him to nod before removing them, baring him. 

“Let’s get you clean.” Her whispered words harsh in the heavy silence. 

“I’ll never be clean.” 

She hushes him like she would a child, lowering him into the water, he hisses at the heat but accepts it. Isabel can see his shoulders relax, see his knitted brow unfurl, and the white knuckled grip loosens as he lays back in the large tub. She kneads his tight shoulders and his breath comes out in shudders. She pours water over his head and shifts her hands to his scalp, wet curls passing through her fingers as she rubs his temples willing his headache away. He makes a noise akin to a whimper in the back of his throat; she pours more water over his head so that he might mask his tears.

“There was a girl, a mage, one of my charges…Helena. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen.” Cullen starts, his voice rough, breaking. Isabel rubs at his temples and shoulders, allowing him to speak. “She came to me for help, one of the other templars was abusing her. She had the bruises to prove it, and she came to me begging.” He took a long breath, “I filled out the requisite paperwork, and passed it on to Meredith. Helena had passed her Harrowing, she was a junior enchanter, gifted, and when I saw her next she had been made tranquil. Her bruises never faded.” He brings a hand to his face.

“Cullen-“

“I knew.” A sob breaks from his throat, “Maker forgive me I knew, I could have done something, but I…I had no business being near mages, after Kinloch Hold, after everything I saw, after the torture, after... I was so full of fear and hate, and I was given to Meredith who told me my hate was righteous. I believed her. I trusted her. I pretended that I didn’t know, and didn’t see, but I did, I ignored my conscience until I couldn’t anymore.” Isabel stops massaging, leaning forward encircling him, not caring that her tunic is now wet. She hugs him while he purges himself. 

“You are not that man anymore, Cullen, and I know you will spend the rest of your days atoning.” She holds him until the water turns tepid and he shivers from the cold instead of his emotions.

Cullen watches as Isabel dries him, rubbing his skin, chasing away the chill. When she reaches his head to towel his dripping curls he catches her by the wrist. His mouth opens to speak, concern plain on his face, and Isabel smiles up at him, tight lipped and incomplete. She gives a short shake of her head, and he understands. He kisses her instead, slow and full of unspoken words. His hands frame her face and he nods, another time.

A fresh set of clothes has been left and he slips into his smalls and between the crisp cotton sheets of Isabel’s bed, she follows after him, hugging him from behind, anchoring him to her. Cullen slips into sleep quickly; Isabel is a sentinel guarding him from his demons, freshly exposed as they are. Her own darkness hides in the corners of her mind. Caring for Cullen distracted her from them for a time, but in the dark of her chambers with nothing but the occasional pop of the fire’s dying embers, they find her again. 

It’s the long black before the first grey light of dawn, Isabel has left the warmth of her bed. Cullen has had a mercifully uneventful night, not so much as twitching and snoring lightly. It’s his breathing that she anchors herself to while her mind relives the horrors of her past. Her head snaps up when she hears the long howls of the hunting wolf pack in the valley, her teeth clench painfully at each answering howl, a cold chill winding its way into her spine. 

She can’t shake the feeling of being surrounded, hunted, it wasn’t spiders she’d seen in the fade, it was the shadow of wolves, always just out of her peripheral, it had caused the same rising panic it had that night ten years ago, the same bile rising in her throat, the same overwhelming guilt.   
She doesn’t hear Cullen roll over, or the quiet sleep filled voice calling out to her. She’s sitting in her large chair hugging her knees, ignoring the muscle cramps in her legs and arms, staring at the nearly black embers, her focus entirely on the distant wolf calls. 

“Isabel?” Cullen’s voice is closer now, but it’s his hand on her shoulder that breaks the trance of fear she’d succumbed to. 

Large grey eyes find his, the moon reflecting in the unshed tears making them almost luminous. He kneels in front of her and she can barely see him through the dark, but knows his face is writ with concern. He found her in her vulnerability and she can’t run, can’t replace her mask, he’s already seen her. She swallows hard gulping in shuddering breath after shuddering breath still fighting not to succumb, but Cullen finds her face with his large warm hands and the first tear rolls down her cheek. 

“It wasn’t spiders.” She chokes out, still fighting not to weep, she didn’t deserve that luxury, didn’t deserve that release. 

Cullen nods, not pressing or prying, not demanding that she tell him what it was she did see in the fade. Instead he reaches for his fur mantle and places it around her shoulders, gently easing her arms loose so that she might unfurl her legs. Isabel tries not to think of how warm his hands feel on her skin, or how cold she was a moment earlier, she shivers, and Cullen pulls her out of her chair into his arms, carrying her to the bed. 

They sit, face to face with their legs tangled, and Cullen holds her hands lightly in his. Isabel can’t look at him, because she’s sure it will be the last time he looks at her with so much love in his eyes. They’ve yet to speak the words to each other, but every touch and every kiss is a declaration. She knows she can’t keep the truth of that night bottled up anymore. After the fade the events haunt her every step, and she’s slowly being consumed by the guilt.

“You’re going to hate me, Cullen.” She whispers when he tilts her head up to look at him. The dawn is breaking and their faces are no longer obscured by the blanket of darkness. The howls of the wolves have stopped as well. 

“The same way you hated me when I told you of my crimes in Kirkwall?” He raises an eyebrow at her though his face loses none of its concern. “I could never h-“ 

“Don’t.” Because he might take it back after he hears what she did. She couldn’t bear him taking it back, his hate she could accept, but not a broken promise. “I told you once that I miscarried Mathias’ child when I fled from Ferelden to Ostwick during the blight.” 

“I remember, yes.” Nodding, holding fast to her hands, running his thumbs over her knuckles.

“Our carriage was ambushed, not by darkspawn, but bandits, deserters. They knocked over the carriage with me in it…it quickened the birth nearly two months too soon.” Pressing on, if she stopped now she would tell him the same lie she’d been telling for ten years. “One of the knights charged with seeing us, my mother in law, and young brother in law, to safety, found me. She put me on a horse, I remember seeing that she was the only one left standing. She sent the horse running while she allowed me to escape with her life.”

“I don’t know how long or far I ran, but the birthing pains were coming quickly, the horse reared, throwing me. Maker there was so much blood, the animal must have smelt it because it ran.” Her hands grip Cullen’s, her knuckles gone white as she retold her story. “She was so small, to this day I don’t understand how it hurt as much as it did, because she was far too small.” The memory of the small reedy wail her premature daughter had cried out, declaring her life fills her head. She squeezes her eyes shut, remembering the blood on her perfect little face, “She was turning blue, she couldn’t…..she couldn’t breathe properly. I didn’t know how to help her. Maker she was too small. I heard the wolves howling. They must have smelled the blood. She wouldn’t stop crying. Like a beacon.” Her hands shake hard and Cullen holds them, Isabel stops fighting the tears, letting them fall freely now, her voice breaking, pained and raw. 

“I tried to run….but she cried…and cried.” She hears the wailing and howling in her mind and she tries pulling her hands away to cover her ears, but Cullen holds fast. Isabel licks her lips with her mouth gaping, trying to push the damning words out of her mouth. “I put her to my breast. She wouldn’t suckle, she was so small, my breast covered her entire face…I…covered her. She fought me, so small, but she fought every second of her short life to live….and I killed her. I killed my daughter, she came too soon, and she wouldn’t stop crying…the wolves were coming….I was so scared, Cullen.” Isabel’s body shudders with grief and regret. “Andraste’s grace fled me that day, my cowardice damning me. I clawed out a shallow grave on the side of the road, and wrapped her in a bloody shift and fled. I kept telling myself she wouldn’t have survived anyways, she was too small, I was too far from any towns, but ….I ran, knowing full well the wolves would have her.” Isabel keens, rocking her body, feeling the loss like a physical pain, undeserving of grief for being her child’s murderer.

“I never gave her a name, the fade….the fade….the fear demon told me I gave him a despair demon that day, my girl. It was wolves, and demons wearing my daughter’s face that I saw in the fade. I’ve been running from the truth of my sins for so long that I started believing the lie I told, that I’d delivered a stillborn. But she was alive, Cullen, and I stole that life. And then I stole Hawke’s life when I left her in the fade. I am a wretched, evil soul.” She looks up at Cullen expecting to see shock, or disgust, but she sees tears falling from his golden eyes. 

He pulls her into his arms holding her close to him and she howls out her pain, mourning the child she could have had, mourning the young woman she had once been. Hating herself while Cullen rocks her in his arms, shushing her between snippets of the chant about forgiveness. 

“You made an impossible choice, Isabel, but I do not hate you. Nor will I ever.” She feels him kiss the top of her head, stroking her short hair. “We are both sinners, we will both atone for what we were forced to do to survive.” 

Cullen orders Isabel to rest, and she doesn’t fight him, she’s exhausted. She sleeps on and off for almost two days before he fetches her. He leads her to the small chantry where there are two unlit candles sitting on the alter. She hesitates when he kneels, inviting her to join him.   
“I’m not welcome here, Cullen.” Her emotions are still raw from her admission, and the mark crackles quietly on her hand. 

“Yes you are, Isabel, please.” He offers his hand and she tentatively takes it, kneeling beside him, folding her hands in prayer for the first time in a decade. 

Cullen begins the chant asking for forgiveness and grace, asking for strength , and for peace. He lights a taper and puts it to the candle closest to him. “For Helena.” He whispers softly, “Every day, for the rest of my life, for all the innocents who were abused and killed while under my charge.” He hands her the lit taper. 

Isabel takes it, lowering it to the candle closest to her. “We were going to name her Andrea, ten years too late, but Andraste please keep her in the light of your bosom. Give her peace at her father’s side.” She swallows the lump in her throat, wondering if the self-loathing would ever go away, praying it wouldn’t.

She leans her head on Cullen’s shoulder and wonders if the Maker could ever forgive a pair such as them.


End file.
